


Being Theatrical

by aliengirlguy



Series: Trek One-Shots [4]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen, Humor, One Shot, Q2 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 13:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11510601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliengirlguy/pseuds/aliengirlguy
Summary: Dr. Julian Bashir being theatrical.





	Being Theatrical

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot that came out of watching a gif of Dr. Bashir posted by Elenor, a follower/follow back of mine on twitter. 
> 
> So here's your fanfic Eleanor :D
> 
> Disclaimer: Star Trek is owned by CBS/Paramount, no money being made.

Dr. Julian Bashir never really considered himself a man of theatrics. 

Alright, maybe some of his mannerisms could be construed as theatrical, but Julian liked to think of those times as moments of enthusiasm, no matter how Odo might “Puh!” at that, or Miles roll his eyes, or Garak stare deeply into his eyes going “My dear Julian, you are a delightful walking drama.” 

Julian muttered a particularly choice Cardassian slur under his breath as he tried to stumble around in the darkness with little success. Granted, he might be better then the average human at many things, but enhanced reflexes and intellect still needed sufficient light to analyze one’s situation and maneuver around in. 

He supposed that his current situation was perhaps partly his own fault. 

He and Miles had been playing their usual dart game, Miles close to winning this time, when everyone’s favourite tenet of Quark’s, the excellent Morn, accidentally tripped over the bag of a shifty eyed Targellian, which caused him to smack into a Dabbo boy passing by, which sent the unfortunate chap sailing into Rom, which caused the startled Ferengi to accidentally spill a cold pitcher of Bolian Iced Raga down the back of Julian’s uniform. 

The sudden sticky cold splash at the moment of release of his dart, sent it wildly off target, and embedded itself in the back of the head of a tall blond man who had been talking up a Caitian Sax player and his drummer for a night cap. 

Needless to say, no one was going to, or getting, lucky in that moment. 

Julian being the medical professional that he was, made to move to help the blond whom wore a singularly annoyed expression, as darts suddenly sticking out of one’s cranium can be a bit of a turn off for some species, spotted Julian. Figuring that he was the source of the mild irritation, the man raised his fingers and snapped them with an irritated flourish, encompassing Julian in a brief flash of blinding white light. 

Which was what lead to Julian being in this dark room, thinking dark thoughts about Bolian beverages. 

As he stumbled around, what little he could deduce of his situation was that that, wherever he was, he was no longer on the station. There was a smell in the air. Scents of old and fresh paint, dust, stale popcorn, and sweat, likely humanoid filled the air. Little things that the air filtration units on DS9 would have taken care of normally, which meant that he was not on board the station. 

The next thing he had deduced was that the man he had accidentally skewered likely (though he could not be sure) had been a Q. He had read the files of previous encounters, and though that Q tended to favour a human brunette form in a captain’s outfit instead of the blond human in pastel jumpsuit, he did note the similar snapping fingers with flair, the flash of white light, and lack of pained reaction to a dart sticking out of his head. 

This meant that wherever he was, he could be anywhere, anytime, and possibly in any form, given that this was an omnipotent being of phenomenal cosmic power, which was not the most calming of deductions. 

Julian stumbled around some more for a few minutes until he found himself suddenly tripping over something and flung forward, catching himself against something solid. It was as he was trying to catch his breath, and so, preoccupied with his current round of cussing, that he didn’t notice the curtain behind him rising. 

He did notice when his field of vision was flooded with light again, though this time not from a Q. 

Julian whirled around, and stared in befuddled shock, squinting in the glare of the spot light, at the heads of hundreds of well dressed people sitting in the audience splayed around the stage before him. 

All of them were staring at him expectantly with eyes that were monocle and heavily painted, sly over open fans or half mast from under bored jaundiced fat folds, or bulging in expectation of being horribly affronted by something. All judging and waiting to be entertained one way or another. 

There was a gleaming band at the base of the stage dressed in smart crimson velvet with pill box hats and gleaming brass buttons that sparkled in the light, matching the gleam of polished tubas, trombones and even an obo or two. 

The conductor, a short squat little man with balding grey hair and a pencil thin moustache, twitched his long thin nose at Julian, raised a brow, and with a sigh, made a subtle “get on with it” gesture that had not gone out of style among humanity over the various centuries. 

The conductor raised his wand, somewhere from the darkened shadows of stage left, Julian was tossed a top hat, and a shiny black cane which he caught on instinct. Julian had the sudden manic thought that Garak would be horrified by the clash of star fleet uniform and old-style Earth elegance. 

When Julian didn’t do anything, but stand stiffly pressed against the painted skirt of The Statue of Liberty in the background, the conductor paused the music, glared at the poor doctor, and made the obvious gesture of drawing his hand along his bow-tied throat, a meaning that had not changed as well over the centuries, then huffily started up the music again. 

Julian, feeling that it was best to play along for now, resignedly slapped on the hat, took up the cane, slapped on a toothy smile and decided that if he was trapped in this musical hell-hole who-knows-where, he was damn well going to do his best. 

“ _Hello my baby, Hello my honey, Hello my rag time gal...”_

His body moved in a surprisingly good two-step/Fred Astaire number, and when the song shifted to something with a bit more kick, he was rather surprised that he had been able to tan-tan his leg that high. 

He danced, sang, juggled, told stand up comedy, and a rather sterling monologue from the Merchant of Venice and his acappella, of a rather moving Defying Gravity got some bright eyes in the group. 

When he was finally allowed to be done, the crowd rose into a raucous applause and Julian bowed, panting and feeling like he had done several rounds with a Klingon and only barely survived. 

He was still bowing when he was encompassed in a flash of light, and stood up to find himself standing in the command centre of DS9. 

“Doctor?” Sisko asked in amused concern, while the rest of the command crew stared goggle eyed at Julian, “Care to explain?” 

Julian took of his top hat, tucked the cane under an arm, dusting flowers off his shoulder, and said casually, “Don’t mind me sir, I was being theatrical,” and with that, he nodded smartly and strolled off the deck without another word, humming show tunes under his breath, and twirling every fifth step back to Medical. 


End file.
